


Survivor

by Persiflage



Series: Skoulson RomFest 2k16 Redux [12]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inhumans (Marvel), Nightmares, Older Man/Younger Woman, POV Second Person, POV Skye | Daisy Johnson, Post-Season/Series 03, Sharing a Bed, Skoulson RomFest 2k16 REDUX, Skye | Daisy Johnson Feels, Skye | Daisy Johnson's Superpowers, Skye | Daisy Johnson-centric, Watchdogs (Marvel), casual mention of Fitz dying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 16:28:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7648240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflage/pseuds/Persiflage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daisy's finally rejoined SHIELD, but then a solo mission she undertakes goes badly wrong - beginning to deal with the aftermath leads to Daisy and Phil finally confronting their feelings about each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Survivor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zauberer_sirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/gifts).



> This is my final (rather belated) fic for the Skoulson RomFest 2k16 REDUX, and it's written for the Day 3 prompt 'Survivor(s)'.
> 
> The references to torture are non-graphic, but please heed the warning if that sort of thing triggers you.

The lightless doorway at your back yawns with menace, seeming to breathe a miasma of dank, cold air and agonising pain onto the back of your neck. You don't like sitting with your back to that doorway, but the door's been reduced to kindling, hell, not even that, matchsticks and splinters is all that it's good for now. You have to sit here though, for at least a little while longer, while you send out the message for your team to come and pick you up, and while you copy down the list of names of those of your people who've been held here before you – held and destroyed. And not merely destroyed: experimented on ceaselessly, mercilessly, until death was the final mercy, but it was too little, too late.

You continue tapping out the beat: dit, dit, dit, dah, dah, dah, dit, dit, dit, hoping that someone on your team can recognise Morse code. The people here were very old school in some respects – and frighteningly, chillingly modern in too many other respects.

You finish copying out the list and, abandoning the equipment, you make your way outside: the cold is like a sharp knife through the too thin hospital gown you're wearing and you briefly consider going back inside to strip one of the corpses of the staff, but you can't. You CAN'T. Going back down into that basement is something you can't manage now that you're finally out.

You stumble away from the building on cold, benumbed feet, hoping you're not going to end up with frostbite: losing your toes would be too much.

You've considered destroying the building – something you could do – but you've decided to leave it intact because someone (and you don't envy them, whoever it will be) will have to go down there and identify the Inhuman bodies. 

You pause, doubling over and trying, uselessly, to vomit. You can't because there's nothing in you – it's been 36 hours since you were last given any food, and you're very aware that you're close to collapsing between the lack of food and the use of your powers to escape – the latter always leaves you in need of food to refuel.

You make it as far as the treeline before you collapse, too cold, exhausted, and weakened by pain and the lack of food, to keep moving, although you know movement's all that's likely to keep you from adding to the tally of the dead. You manage to scrape some of the leaf litter over yourself, although it's not really adequate as protection against the rapidly dropping temperature.

_Come on, team_ , you think muzzily. _Where are you?_ You slide into unconsciousness easily, but unwillingly.

DJ-PC-DJ-PC-DJ

You regain consciousness with a scream of pure agony as pain lances through all your extremities at once. Immediately hands, two very familiar hands – one flesh and blood, and one not – clasp your hands, and you vaguely hear a familiar, beloved voice repeating your name over and over like a prayer or a mantra.

"Daisy. Daisy. Daisy."

You prise your eyes open, just barely, just enough to see that familiar, beloved face gazing down at you, his eyes full of worry and fear. Before you can speak, or even think further than _Phil_ , darkness slides back over you and you realise that someone's sedated you. You would fight against that if you could, but it's too late – unconsciousness claims you once again.

Your second awakening is gentler, and awareness steals back gradually. The first thing you notice is the hands holding onto yours. _Phil_ , you think, relieved at recognising both his vibrations and his hands, and wondering if he's been holding them all the time that you've been out.

You vaguely recognise a deeper voice rumbling in the background, and with a little effort of concentration you place it and the accompanying vibrations: _Mack_ , you think, relieved – another friend, and your one-time field partner.

Another voice answers Mack's questions, and it takes a further effort of concentration, which causes sweat to break out all over your body, to recognise Jemma Simmons' voice and vibrations.

"Oh good, the gang's all here," you mutter. It's not a loud mutter, but you immediately sense the others' attention focusing on you, and you open your eyes fully to look up at the three of them: Phil's face is haggard, and he looks like he's aged a decade since you last saw him; Mack's expression is one of pure relief; and Jemma's face is full of concern.

"Daisy," Phil says – well, he doesn't say your name so much as breathe it, and you recall the way he used to say 'Skye', even as you can't help thinking, _That's a dead giveaway, Phil, what kind of secret agent are you anyway?_

"Tremors," Mack says, and you'd complain about him using that nickname (which, for the record, you love far better than the media's nickname of 'Quake'), but you can't speak, although you do try.

"Steady, Daisy, steady." Phil tightens his grip on your hands until you focus on his face again. "Give yourself a minute," he says, then looks over at Jemma, who nods before she returns her attention to the tablet in her hand. 

Phil releases both your hands and you bite back a whimper at the loss of his touch, but he's not leaving – he picks up a plastic cup full of ice chips in his right hand, then slides his left arm very gently under your shoulders and lifts you high enough to ensure that you won't choke when he tips a few of the ice chips into your mouth. You suck on them, greedy for the moisture, and after a few moments, Phil gives you a couple more.

"How long?" you ask him, hoping he'll forgive you for talking with a mouth full of ice chips.

"It's 27 hours and 39 minutes since we picked you up," he tells you, and you're sort of surprised by how long you've been unconscious, but also unsurprised because you're under no illusions that you were in a very bad way by the time you collapsed at the treeline. 

"How long?" you repeat, wondering if he'll understand what you're asking this time. 

He tightens his jaw in acknowledgement of the fact that you'd lost track of time in that foul basement they'd called a lab.

"18 days," he tells you, his tone bleak, and you find yourself wondering just how you managed to survive for 18 days in that hell.

"18?" you ask, disbelievingly.

"It's 18 days since you left to investigate rumours of a Watchdog-led laboratory that was experimenting on Inhumans," Jemma clarifies. "We lost contact with you 15 days ago."

15 days. They had been a lot more careful with you than with some of the other Inhumans they held, or maybe you were stronger – you don't know. You just know that the thought that you spent 15 days in the hands of those monsters is horrifying.

"You're going to have to stay here for a while," Phil tells you, recapturing your attention. "Dr Simmons wishes to continue monitoring your vitals for at least another 24 hours to ensure that you're healing, but she tells me you can begin eating solid food now."

"Okay," you say softly. You'd prefer to be in your own bed in your own bunk, but you know that it's too soon for you to leave the Infirmary.

"Is there anything specific I can bring you to eat?" he asks.

You feel a blush heating your face as you ask, "Could I have a grilled cheese?" 

"More than one if Dr Simmons is amenable," Phil says immediately, looking over at Jemma, who's busy typing at the workstation at the other side of the room. 

She nods. "For now I'd recommend that you eat little and often, but nothing too rich. And you need to rehydrate, but not too much soda, and no alcohol for at least another 48 hours until all the drugs you've been given are out of your system."

"Okay," you agree.

"Is there anything I can get you?" Mack asks hopefully, and you guess that he wants to do his bit to help you recover.

"There's a couple of blankets in my bunk," you begin, and he gives a sharp nod. 

"The ones you were given for your birthday?" he says carefully, and you give him a shaky smile. 

"Yeah."

"I'll fetch them for you now."

"Thanks Mack." He goes out quickly, and Phil follows, rather more reluctantly you notice, and Jemma comes to the bed, looking like she can't quite manage her usual 'professional' air of calm.

"Daisy," she says, then stops and visibly takes a breath. "I don't know how you survived." She sounds shaky and you realise she's on the verge of tears.

"Me either," you tell her. You close your eyes, trying to block out the memories of the other Inhumans being systematically culled via their experiments. You suspect they prolonged the experiments they did on you – was it to see how long you could last? Because they'd finally got their hands on the infamous Quake? Because they guessed how much it would hurt you to watch them torturing the others? You don't know, and you realise you'll never know, not now they're all dead, but you suspect the question will always haunt you.

"Daisy." Jemma's voice is shaky, but her hand is steady when it rests on your wrist, and you open your eyes as you realise that everything in the room is rattling lightly.

You pull in a deep breath, then another, and a third, and by then the rattling has stopped and you've uncurled your fists to rest your hands flat on your thighs.

"Sorry," you whisper, and when you look up at Jemma again, she seems closer than ever to tears.

"Don't," she starts, choking on the word, and she swallows, before saying, "Don't apologise. I don't know exactly what was done to you, although I can make an educated guess at a lot of the details, but I have worked out enough to know it was systematic torture in the name of science."

You nod. "Did you – " You have to pause and take a swallow of some of the now-melting ice chips and water before you can continue. "Did you get their data?"

She nods, her eyes still bright with unshed tears, but her expression hard. "I did. But it's encrypted – I'm sorry, but I'll need your help to decrypt it – once you're ready to work on it. I – I think I'll have to look at it in stages."

"Yeah," you agree, because you wouldn't want her to inflict the whole of it on herself in one go.

You lift your hand and curl it lightly around her forearm. "How are you doing after everything?" It's barely a month since she lost Fitz, and coming on top of losing Will less than two years ago, you think she must be feeling that her luck in dating men is as lousy as your own.

She takes a deep breath, then smiles. "I'm getting there," she says and you want to ask further questions, but you don't – if she wants to talk to you, she will when she's ready.

She fusses around a little longer, then leaves to go and give the Director her report, and as Jemma goes out, Mack comes in carrying the two woollen blankets you were given for your birthday: one is a pale blue with robins on it, and was a gift from Charles Hinton's widow, Polly, and their young daughter, Robin; the other is dark green and features dogs of several breeds, and was a gift from Cal, or rather Dr Winslow, since he doesn't know that you're actually his daughter, and you can never tell him without risking undoing the TAHITI protocol. You became friends with him and the Hintons during the eight and a half months that you were away from SHIELD, doing 'your Quake thing' as Mack phrases it.

"Any news from Elena and Joey?" you ask him as he shakes out the blankets one by one and spreads them over your legs.

"I called Yo-Yo after we picked you up, just to let them know you'd been found. She's promised that the two of them will come visit as soon as they can – probably at the weekend."

"Good," you say. "It'll be good to see them both again."

He nods, then leans down and presses a kiss to your brow.

"Come here," you say and lift both arms, and he breaks into a big smile, then slides his arms around you for a brief but heartfelt hug.

"I'm going to let you get some rest now," he tells you. "I've got some work to do in the hangar, but if you need me for anything ask Jemma to call me."

"I will," you promise, and he pulls away slowly, as if reluctant to leave you. He heads for the door, then pauses to hold it open as Phil returns carrying an obviously laden tray.

He gives you a smile as he crosses the room towards you, and you wonder how many of the others can see his heart-eyes, because they seem glaringly obvious to you today. Perhaps everyone else is just so used to the way he looks at you like you're some kind of miracle that they don't recognise there's more to it than that now.

"Didn't Jemma say I was to 'eat little and often'?" you tease when he sets the tray down on the table attached to the bed, then swings it over your lap.

"I wasn't sure how hungry you were," he says, trying for a cheery tone – and you can tell that he is trying. "You don't have to eat it all at once."

You nod and note he's brought you two grilled cheese, a big bowl of mixed salad, and some chocolate cake. There's also a glass of fruit juice and another of chocolate milkshake.

"I see you took the rehydration order seriously, too," you say, reaching for the milkshake. "Thanks."

He nods, then hovers as if he's unsure whether to stay or go. 

"Grab a chair," you tell him, nodding at one nearby, and when he still looks uncertain, you add, "Please, Phil. I'd rather not be left alone right now."

Understanding flashes across his face, and he grabs the chair and brings it over to the bed.

"How's May?" you ask. You're not surprised that you haven't seen her yet, though you've no doubt that she came by while you were unconscious. She's told you that she doesn't blame you for Andrew's death, and you believe her – but she doesn't have to blame you for you to feel guilty: Lash was killed saving you from Hive's Sway. Besides, Andrew wouldn't have become Lash if it wasn't for you and Jiaying: you don't need May's blame because you're quite capable of blaming yourself. May knows that too, and she'd been understanding when you told her that you'd rather not resume training with her just yet – you'd explained why, and because she had her own lingering trauma over what happened in Bahrain a few years ago, she didn't push you. You'd promised that when you were ready to train with her again, you'd let her know, and she'd accepted with a quiet comment, "I missed you, too, Daisy, you know." You'd thanked her, and then walked away, doing your best to keep your emotions in check.

"She's okay," Phil tells you. "Still adjusting after Talbot's departure."

You nod. May had been made Director – rather unwillingly, you suspect – after Phil was demoted for not handing over you, Joey, and Elena to the ATCU once the Sokovia Accords were enacted. The President then decided (you suspect on Talbot's advice) to merge the remnants of the ATCU with SHIELD in order to deal with 'the Inhuman threat', and May had been required to report daily to Talbot – which hadn't endeared him to May.

"Are you likely to go back to being Director again?" you ask between bites of grilled cheese.

Phil shakes his head. "No. I'd rather remain a field agent. I never really enjoyed being Director."

"Never really wanted it either, did you?" you ask shrewdly. You know exactly why Phil took it on, of course – you know that Phil sees Fury as a father-figure of sorts, which was why he'd accepted the promotion from Fury in the first place.

"I can't hide much from you, can I?" Phil asks with a rueful expression.

You snort. "Not really, Phil, although there is one thing you had me fooled about for a while."

"Oh yes?" He sits up more animatedly, his expression curious.

You nod, swallow your final mouthful of grilled cheese, then wash it down with some milkshake. "I was fooled into thinking you weren't in love with me," you say casually, and he looks utterly stunned, so you continue before he can interrupt or try to deny it. "I knew you loved me, of course – you've made that pretty clear over the years. But I thought it was as a friend, or a mentor/protégé thing."

"And you don't think that now?" he asks carefully.

You shake your head. "I know there's more to it than that." 

He swallows, then clenches his jaw and a muscle jumps. "I – " he begins, then sits looking at you with a helpless expression.

"It's okay, Phil," you say softly. "I feel the same way." You push the table aside, and beckon to him, and he gets to his feet and moves to the side of the bed.

You hold out your arms to him and a look of relief crosses his face, then he leans down to wrap his arms around you.

"I'm so glad you're safe, Daisy," he whispers, and you feel his breath on your neck, then tears dropping onto your skin, and you pull back enough to see his face.

"Come here," you say, and tug on his arms so that he gets the message. He sniffs a bit, digs in his jeans pocket for a handkerchief, pulls off his shoes, then moves the tray of food away as you shift across the bed. It's not really wide enough for two people, but you're not going to let that stop you, and apparently neither is he. He lowers the rail, then climbs onto the bed next to you, lying on his side, and you immediately wrap your arms around him, ignoring the aches and stabs of pain from your various wounds. None of that matters as much as having Phil lying here beside you, wrapped in your arms, his own arms firmly embracing you.

He kisses you, a light brush of his lips against yours, and you bite back a moan of desire. You want him badly, but you're very aware that you're in no condition for anything more energetic than a bit of kissing and cuddling.

"I do," he says quietly, and you raise an eyebrow.

"I didn't propose," you tell him, straight-faced, and he chuckles, which makes you laugh, and god, that hurts – your ribs throb and jab at you, but you don't care, not right now, not when Phil Coulson's lying in your arms, shaking with laughter, and also trying not to cry. When your own laughter turns into tears, mostly in relief that this is out in the open now, his tears spill over, but he's far more concerned with soothing and comforting you than in worrying about his own ragged emotions.

You fall asleep in his arms, his vibrations soothing you as much as his hands stroking your back and arm.

And Phil's the one to gently shake you awake from a nightmare a few hours later.

"Daisy. Daisy. Wake up. Come on, Daisy. It's okay. You're safe now. I've got you, Daisy."

You manage to fight your way out of the nightmare, and he cuddles you, speaking in a low, soothing voice as he tries to comfort you.

After a while you settle back into his warm embrace and think that you must be the luckiest person in the world right now: Phil Coulson is a gift, one you're sure you don't deserve, but one you're desperately grateful for. If anyone can help you get through the aftermath of what was done to you in that Watchdogs lab, you think it's Phil.

"I do, too," you whisper by his ear.

"Good," he says softly, and presses kisses to your brow, both your cheeks, then lightly to your lips. "Go back to sleep if you can. I'm not going to leave you."

"Thank you," you murmur, and allow yourself to slide back into sleep again.


End file.
